


A Blanket of Starlight

by Providentia67



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Centaur AU, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22889554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Providentia67/pseuds/Providentia67
Summary: Based on the Sanders Sides Centaur AU created by @fangirltothefullest on Tumblr.  If you haven't seen it, check it out!  In fact, all their stuff's amazing!A part of him holds to the deep and paralyzing fear that the longer he runs, the more he prolongs the sure and inevitable retribution of the whip.  That for every stride, every meter, every moment of airborne gallop, it's worth will be taken out in the flesh of his ankles.  Another second, minute, hour, day stolen from the time he has strength to even stand.  Even now his feathered fetlocks scream with the pulling of poorly healed scar tissue and muscle.  And each step is like descending into a vice of iron nails.Virgil runs anyway.---Desperate to escape the only life he has ever known, Virgil finds himself taken in by fellow centaurs Patton and Emile and their human friend Thomas.  Under their care the promise of freedom is a tempting lure.  But healing takes time, and is a journey that never truly ends.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Dr. Emile Picani, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Thomas Sanders, Dr. Emile Picani & Thomas Sanders, Morality | Patton Sanders & Dr. Emile Picani, Morality | Patton Sanders & Thomas Sanders
Comments: 4
Kudos: 77





	A Blanket of Starlight

A part of him holds to the deep and paralyzing fear that the longer he runs, the more he prolongs the sure and inevitable retribution of the whip. That for every stride, every meter, every moment of airborne gallop, it's worth will be taken out in the flesh of his ankles. Another second, minute, hour, _day_ stolen from the time he has strength to even stand. Even now his feathered fetlocks scream with the pulling of poorly healed scar tissue and muscle. And each step is like descending into a vice of iron nails.

Virgil runs anyway.

A part of him knows that if he is to commit himself to this foolish, doomed flight of momentary bravery- _insanity,_ that he should not waste his awareness on staring at the open sky. He should focus on the road ahead, the hard-packed dirt and the sparse, broken line of half-starved maples that border the country road beyond the sharply dipping drainage channels. He should listen for the anticipated roar of pursuing engines and wait for the blinding glare of headlights to come chasing at his back.

His eyes refuse to leave the sky regardless. 

They tear at the thought of looking away from the endless field of scattered stardust. An ocean of black and studded silver that spits in the face of all the jeweled finery thrown at his haunches. It has been so, _so_ long since Virgil has seen the stars. Too often the light and pollution of the grounds swallowed the constellations in smog and the only times he has glimpsed their splendor, it has been through the shuttered bars of a rattling trailer. This, _this,_ open, endless infinity. It is something truly wonderful to behold.

Every breath stings like fire. Like the fading, aching burns of the sparks that had scored his flanks and crisped the curling length of his tail. The memory of heat lingers even through the cool air of the autumn night and the taste of smoke still clings in the back of his throat. The silken hair and the soles of his back hooves burn from repeated kicks to the barn’s blazing wood. Forcing himself through the flaming ring, out of the suffocating heat of the stable and into the open field had been a feat of rare and singular desperation. One he did not think he could ever bring himself to repeat.

And once the taste of freedom without harness had been his, when it became clear that the scrambling of the household and staff held no time to locate their wandering Friesian, Virgil had stolen into the shadow of the starless sky and fled.

He runs until the heady rush of adrenaline gives way to pain, until pain fades away to numb repetition, and until senseless motion brings with it the assurity that the moment he stops, he will not be able to get up again for a very long time. To Virgil’s utmost shame and surprise it is not the strangling noose of rope or the strike of braided leather that brings him low, it is the fault of an unsure step. A broken dip in the surface of the road, perhaps made by an upturned stone causes his right foreleg to falter. His weight tips and his shoulder strikes earth before he ever gets the chance to recover. 

His wrist burns and his right flank drags at the rough-packed dirt until his momentum finally fades to stillness. Virgil bites back a pained, animalistic whinney at the compounding agony. The fingers of his left hand claw at the ground, his arm shaking as he tries to lift his torso up. He can feel blood welling against his cheek and it pulls a desperate sob from his heaving chest. When they find him, see the damage he has _stupidly_ inflicted upon himself, there will be no end to the household’s rage. They will take it out on the trainers and the trainers, on him.

The thought brings newfound motivation and Virgil finds the will to lift himself up on his elbows. His legs kick out uselessly, dragging dirt through the wavy tangle of his hair, but he has to try. He even manages to drag himself forward another couple of feet before his vision swims and a deep and profound exhaustion drags him to the ground, recumbent.

The last thing he sees before slipping into the grip of oblivion is that wonderful blanket of starlight.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, he has no way of gauging the length of time he should anticipate before expecting pursuers, but the first thing he hears are not the angered voices he fearfully awaits, they’re hooves. Light, too light for the draft horses kept for farmwork. They prance and canter and set a pace too unmeasured, too chaotic to be the practiced gait of service beasts. And as their vivace tempo gets closer and more audible, Virgil finally catches words.

“Emile, come on! You’re so slow!” Centaurs. Virgil hears as the speaker turns himself in a tight circle, kicking up dust no doubt, by the way his hooves drag through the dirt. There is a gap of quiet as the centaur leaps from the shadow of the trees across the gap of the drainage channel. He can hear laughter, and then abrupt silence.

“Oh good gracious,” unsteady footsteps draw close. Virgil fights to open his eyes, but even when he manages to lift the leaden weight of his eyelids all he can see is faded colors. Brown and spotted white and cool, clear blue. His legs twitch.

“Patton!” Another voice, the other centaur, calls from somewhere not far off. “Would you let me catch up!”

“E-Emile!” The first sounds more distressed now, and there is a heavy sound of descending weight as the centaur kneels down and fingers brush the bare flesh of Virgil's shoulder. When Virgil manages little more than a twitch and subdued moan, the tentative touch turns to the warmth of a palm. “Emile, there’s someone here!”

“What?” The other centaur speeds to a gallop, crashing through the scattered underbrush and making a clumsy leap to Patton’s side. “Oh my goodness.” Nervous steps serve as precursor to Emile pulling Patton up. “Patton he looks hurt. You should go get Thomas.”

“But-” the heavy whuffing of a flickering tail.

“You’re faster. Go, get Thomas, bring the truck. I’ll stay with him.”

Truck? That means humans. Humans mean harnesses. Humans mean stables and ownership and _going back._ Virgil opens his mouth to protest but all that comes out is a whimper that devolves into a cry. One of the centaurs rushes over and kneels beside his head. “Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, we’ve got you.” Gentle, calloused hands lift his head to rest against the short hair of a foreleg and nimble fingers start carding through his tangled hair. “Patton, go.”

“Okay.” And Patton is gone, racing off into the trees and disappearing like a fleeting dream. If not for Emile, Virgil would assume this _was_ a dream.

“My name is Emile,” says the centaur. “Don’t worry, we’re going to help you.” And Virgil doesn’t know if that’s true, but he doesn’t have the strength to wonder as he drifts once again to unconsciousness.

The next sounds that wake him are nothing so comforting as the clatter of Emile and Patton’s hooves. No, it is the familiar, dreaded stutter of a reverberating engine. The pull of tire tread against dirt, and the steady, binary pattern of human boots on the earth. The human stops a good few paces back, with Emile a barrier between them.

“Is he okay?” asks Patton, panting as he races to catch up with the now-parked truck.

“Emile?” asks the human. 

A steady hand pats Virgil's shoulder. “He’s pretty out of it. Poor thing’s exhausted.”

“Do you think he’ll let us get him in the cart?” asks the human. “I think he’ll fit.”

Virgil shivers and Emile’s hand dips down to wrap around his unhurt palm. The centaur gives it a comforting squeeze. “I don’t know, he seems spooked. Go slow, Thomas.”

“Alright.” Hands slap against worn denim and the human begins a gradual approach. He takes heavy, trackable steps, making almost a full circle around Virgil so that he can approach from the left. There is a light touch of fingertips against his flank, and they walk in steady increments until the human is crouched beside Emile. “I’ve got his front,” says Thomas. “Go help Patton support him in back.”

Emile pulls away, but not before the human is there, looping Virgil’s arm around his shoulders. He flinches, but it is the rough, sturdy feel of flannel he feels against his skin rather than satin or silk that keeps the Friesian from outright panic. Thomas grunts as he takes the weight of Virgil’s human torso, and behind him, he feels the centaurs kneel down to lift his hindquarters up to a standing position. He can hear Emile huffing under the weight to support his flank and does his best to get his legs beneath him.

He’d honestly expected them to simply drag him up, he appreciates, even if he still doesn’t trust, the effort to help him walk. “Everybody good?” asks Thomas.

“Yep,” Emile grunts.

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, let’s go.” Virgil can hear the human’s labored breathing in his ear and feels each warm exhale against his cheek. It’s a slow process, and Virgil barely helps as they make the short but difficult trip down the few meters of road and up the ramp to the cart bed. Virgil can’t find it in himself to blame this strange group for all but dropping him into the hay-and-blanket covered cart as Thomas guides his upper body to rest against a padded bale. “Do one of you want to stay with him?” he asks.

“I will,” says Patton, and the centaur settles himself onto the bed, curled around Virgil’s back. Someone settles something soft and warm against his shoulders. It feels almost like a cardigan, or maybe even a hoodie.

“Sounds good. C’mon, Em.” Thomas jumps from the cart and Emile trots down the ramp behind him, taking a moment to latch the plank upright before trotting around to the front of the truck. The engine roars and Virgil flinches, cringing as the truck begins to pull them forward.

Patton shushes him and clasps Virgil’s palm between his hands. “Hey, it’s alright. You’re going to be okay.”

Virgil wishes he could believe that. He hopes that this isn’t all some delusional fever dream born of exhaustion and the tired, battered longing of his soul. The open air of the cart drags a clean breeze across his face, and allows Virgil to retain an unhindered view of the sky. Even if this is all a trick and he wakes up tomorrow delivered back to the estate, he’ll at least owe them that. Virgil fights sleep away with everything he has to keep his eyes on the stars.

The humans used to say how the glitter of diamonds against his coat was like looking at starlight. How awful and wrong he now sees they were. Virgil doesn’t think he’s ever witnessed anything as beautiful as the pure night sky. 

When at last Virgil's fatigue wins out and he drifts off for the final time, it is with the reflection of stars in his eyes, Patton’s humming in his ears, and the comforting rhythm of another centaur’s heart beating in tandem with his own. It's not perfect, but it _is_ the closest thing to peace Virgil thinks he’s ever felt.


End file.
